


I Wanna Be Completely Weightless

by ADreamer67



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Love, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Food Issues, Gen, Hurt Loki (Marvel), I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Loki (Marvel) Has Issues, Loki (Marvel) Needs a Hug, Loki and Thor share an apartment in this very very vague AU, Mental Health Issues, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Self-Esteem Issues, The Author Regrets Everything, Thor (Marvel) is Not Stupid, Thor (Marvel) is a Good Bro, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:27:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25984351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADreamer67/pseuds/ADreamer67
Summary: Loki is fine. Really. He is.Hedoesn'thave a problem.
Relationships: Loki & Thor (Marvel)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 108





	I Wanna Be Completely Weightless

**Author's Note:**

> Bad Things Happen Bingo: Don't You Dare Pity Me

Loki has a scale. Thor doesn't know he has a scale.

Hidden under the sink in the bathroom, tucked behind the trash can and cleaning supplies. Small. Unobtrusive.

He tries not to check it. He really does. He knows, or at least part of him does, the logical part, that it isn't a good idea. Or probably isn't. He doesn't look every day, anyway.

 _185.2_ blinks back at him innocently from the floor, and he swears. Loudly, and at length. Punches the wall and paces in a circle.

That night, he doesn't eat dinner.

Loki has a goal. A number, sitting in his head. _If I could just get to 150. If I could just get to 150. 160, even. I'd be happy_. Knowing this is a slippery slope doesn't mean he lets go of the thought.

He's a healthy weight, doctors have told him at annual checkups. Right in the middle. Perfectly fine.

 _It doesn't feel fine_ , Loki thinks, wanting to crawl out of his skin.

 _It doesn't feel fine_ , Loki thinks, standing in front of the mirror with his shirt up, ready to drop it and act like nothing is the matter should Thor knock.

He looked up BMI and ideal weight calculators, then cleared the search history. Everything is telling him he's fine. It's fine. He's not fat. Ideal weight range for a male of his height is 140—200, he reads online. If 185.2 is healthy, then 150 can be too. There's nothing wrong with him for wanting this. Doesn't everyone want to look better than they do? It's normal. It's not like he starves himself. He eats every day.

It's eight o clock at night, and Loki has had a slice of cheese and an apple. He's eaten. But he's also starving. The pain in his stomach is gnawing, all-consuming. He can hardly think of anything but eating.

Loki walks past the pantry without stopping. He does it again. Next time he passes by the fridge. He sits down on the couch and puts his head in his hands. _Eat_ , he orders himself, almost desperately. _Eat_.

 _187_ his mind tells him stubbornly. _187._

He's so hungry. His stomach growls, loudly, churning inside almost frantically. Loki wants to eat. He should eat. He knows he should. He's read articles online. Starving yourself is the worst way to lose weight. It's unhealthy and it puts your body into fat retention mode.

Again, he walks by the pantry without stopping.

The next time Loki passed by. He stops. Wavers. His stomach growls. He walks away.

That night, Loki goes to bed having only eaten a slice of cheese and an apple. He lies awake for hours, stomach chewing on itself. He thinks of the refrigerator, of the pantry, with longing. But he doesn't get out of bed. He closes his eyes and blanks his mind and breathes through his stomach's painful protests until he's asleep.

In the morning, Loki eats a piece of peanut butter and jelly toast in all of two bites before work. It sates him enough to go on without any distracting discomfort. He's still hungry. He'll eat at lunch.

Loki is hungry again. He sits at the kitchen table, watching the door to the apartment like it can do something about this problem. He could get up and make himself something. He stays where he is.

The door clicks, and Thor walks in backwards, pushing the door open with his body. On each of his arms are plastic bags, broadcasting the Panda Express Logo. "I got take out on the way home from work," Thor beams, holding out the bags. "You like the rice without egg mixed in, right?"

Relief floods Loki like a drug, but he plays it cool with a nod, reaching out to accept the bag that Thor hands him. "Thanks," he says casually, digging inside for a carton and opening it to a generous helping of orange chicken.

"No problem," Thor smiles, plopping down in the seat opposite him and letting his own bag fall to the table. "One of the things of orange chicken in there is for me, though, so don't eat it all."

"I won't," Loki says, stabbing a piece of chicken and putting it into his mouth.

Loki stands in the doorway to Thor's bedroom, hip propped against the doorframe and arms folded casually over his chest. "Want to go get something to eat?" he asks conversationally.

Thor looks up from his book with an apologetic frown. "We ate out yesterday, Loki. Neither of us are made of money."

"Right, I forgot." Loki laughs it off and shuts the door. He walks to the pantry and back five times before giving up and going to bed.

They go out to dinner. Mexican food. Loki stares at his plate.

 _I can eat this_ , he tells himself. _It's alright. It costs money, it would be rude not to_. _I_ have _to eat it, I can't just waste it_. The guilt ebbs somewhat, and he eats. He's not doing anything wrong, Loki repeats to himself.

Loki is hungry. So hungry. But he's full, too.

He wants to eat. He hasn't had anything since lunch, has hardly eaten anything that day. And yet... he feels stuffed. Overfull, like taking a single bite will burst him apart. Loki is hungry, but entertaining the thought of food makes him feel disgusting and piggish. He doesn't need to eat. He's full. Why would he eat if he's full? But he's hungry. His stomach grumbles.

He doesn't eat.

_182.7_ , the scale reads. Loki closes his eyes.

That day, he eats without guilt.

Loki is hungry. He should eat. He should eat. Loki stops by the pantry. He turns around and heads to the bathroom.

 _187.1_ the scale tells him. Loki wants to scream.

He goes back to the pantry. Opens it. Stares. Closes it. Repeated the process at the fridge. He can't justify it. He can't justify letting a single calorie pass his lips. He picks up a book, sits down on the couch, and tries not to think about how hungry he is. _You're disgusting_ , his mind tells him helpfully. _Hunger is disgusting_.

Loki stands in front of the bathroom mirror, door locked. His shirt is off, a towel wrapped around his waist. He got out of the shower, and as the condensation cleared from the mirror, his reflection suckered him in. Loki turns sideways, looks at his body in profile. From the front. From the other side. His fingers flex restlessly as he stares, continually twisting to take in each and every angle. _Fat_ , his brain says. _Disgusting_.

Loki hates himself so much. He imagines taking a knife to himself, flaying the skin and digging out the excess fat from his stomach. Imagines the blood pooling on the floor. Presses a hand to his stomach over the navel, letting his nails dig into the skin just a bit. Imagines reaching in and ripping out his innards. If he was hollow inside—no stomach, no intestines, no fat, no nothing—then maybe he would stop wanting to climb out of his own body, to claw his skin off and run. It's hard to breathe, for some reason.

He doesn't have a problem. He wouldn't actually take a knife to himself. He wouldn't know how to do it properly, anyway. Fat removal surgery isn't something you can do at home with a kitchen knife.

Lokie pictures driving a knife directly into his navel and exhales slowly. His heart is pounding wildly in his chest. He drives the mental knife in again, and again.

 _Bang bang bang_. "What are you doing in there?" Thor hollers. "I need to pee! Hurry up!"

"I'm hurrying, I'm _hurrying_!" Loki yells back.

Loki is on the floor, breathing heavily. _189.5_

_189.5_

_189.5_

_189.5_

He glances toward the toilet. He could do it. Thor isn't home to hear. He could stick his finger down his throat and—he shies away from the thought. No.

No. He doesn't have a problem. But making yourself throw up. That's a problem.

Loki lays curled on the floor and hates himself so much he can't breathe or think.

Loki isn't hungry. He knows he should eat. He feels dizzy. Off-balance. Ready to shatter. He's hungry, he knows.

But he isn't _hungry_. Food holds no attraction to him. He should eat. But the thought of it is exhausting. He doesn't eat.

Loki is hungry. But he can't bring himself to make something. If he makes something, then he'll have to think about eating. And thinking too much makes him back off.

There's Oreos in the pantry. Bought by Thor. Loki doesn't even like Oreos. He eats two, and feels better.

He gets hungry again. He eats two more.

At the end of the day, Loki has had twelve Oreos and he hates himself. He hates himself so much. So much sugar, he can practically feel himself gaining the weight—

Loki finds himself in the pantry, still hungry, going for an Oreo. He growls in frustration and stomps away.

Loki is starving. Thor ordered pizza, and Loki wolfs down a piece while it's still hot. He goes for a second and starts to eat it.

He's still hungry. But the guilt bubbles up. He feels full. He's hungry. But he feels full.

He makes himself finish the slice, because he'd already got it. When Loki finishes, he isn't hungry anymore. But he does feel disgusting.

"Are you going to make something for dinner tonight?"

Thor looks away from the laptop, giving an absent nod. "Sure, in a bit. I was just gonna finish this email..."

Loki nods back. "Alright."

He doesn't need to feel guilty when he eats the spaghetti Thor makes, one of the few recipes in their combined repertoires. He wasn't being greedy. It was given to him.

He finishes the plate, and gets seconds.

"Loki?"

Loki didn't know what he expected when Thor called him into the bathroom.

He didn't expect Thor to be holding his scale, eyes dark and lips pinched together. "Explain," Thor says tightly.

"What is there to explain?" Loki asks, deliberately light. "It's a scale."

"Why do you have it?" Thor presses.

"Most people have a scale, Thor," Loki retorts.

"Loki. Brother..." Thor trails off. Shakes his head. "Loki. I've been watching. You hardly eat, brother. Maybe one meal a day, a few snacks. Sometimes more, sometimes less."

"Not all of us are physical trainers, Thor," Loki snaps, folding his arms over his chest protectively. "Not everyone can pack away food like you do. I'm an artist, I don't run for fun."

"At first I thought you were forgetting to eat," Thor continues. "But I watched you. I watched you go to get something to eat and stop. I've seen it when you want to eat but you stop yourself. Stop lying to me."

There's desperation in those last words, and it cracks something inside of Loki. "So I want to lose a few pounds, it's not a big deal!" He flushes and looks down immediately, regretting his outburst with intensity.

Thor sets the scale down on the counter and steps toward him. He grabs Loki's chin between forefinger and thumb and lifts his head up so they are eye to eye. "But it could be, Loki. You're not fat, brother. You don't need to lose weight."

"No," Loki snarls, pulling away. He ignores Thor's wounded expression, rage flaring in his breast. "No. No. Don't you dare—Don't you _dare_ pity me."

"I'm not—"

Loki cuts him off with a hand swiped through the air. "You are," he growls. "Stop... looking at me like that! I'm not anorexic, Thor! I'm not some broken thing you need to nurse back to health! I'm not starving myself!"

Thor is calm again, eerily calm, when he speaks. "Loki," he says. "Just because you're eating doesn't mean you aren't starving yourself."

"Stop looking at me like that," Loki mumbles, once again dropping his gaze to the floor.

Thor cups his cheeks, lifts his face up again. Presses their foreheads together. Loki tries not to melt into the contact. "Loki," he says, low and sweet. "Tell me what's wrong. Tell me what you need. Let me help."

"I just want to lose a few pounds," Loki whispers.

Smiling gently, Thor wipes away a tear Loki didn't even realize he had shed. "It's okay, brother. Ssh. Let me help." Thor wraps his arms around Loki and holds him close. And for once, for the moment—Loki feels okay in his own skin.


End file.
